


your favourite flower

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:23:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: The first time she comes back, it’s with salt in her hair, her feet carried by the waves with each step she takes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished Crooked Kingdom tonight, and I am trash enough to jump int Kanej fanfictions, apparently. Whatever. I love my dump, pining children and the way they can't deal with their feelings.

The first time she comes back, it’s with salt in her hair, her feet carried by the waves with each step she takes. Her hand brushes against the hard brick wall of a pub, dust sticking to her fingers even as she rubs them – the dust clings to her skin and the smell clings to her hair. This, maybe, is something she didn’t miss, the foul odour of alcohol, sweat, blood, and other things she doesn’t want to think about. After months at sea, salty air in her lungs, Ketterdam’s decaying perfume almost makes her cough around a gag.

But she is home, and she smiles.

Hiding beneath the shadows comes easy to her, the way it always does. Her feet recognize every rock on the ground, every brick and alcove and roof as she climbs her way to the city’s highest points. She perches herself on top of the highest finger of the Church of Barter, if only so she can admire the city – the harbours full of life, people coming and going in the Financial District, even the high silos she climbed, a lifetime ago. Her lips curve up, hair dancing in front of her face, before she decides that she has business to attend to.

She takes the long way around to the Barrel, letting memories flood – that one bakery Nina loved so much, fresh bread smelling heavenly. The pub where she and Jesper got Wylan drunk for the first time. The rooftop where Kaz and her had spent an entire night, watching, spying, whispering. This roof that gets slippery in the winter. That window leading to a naïve merchant’s bedroom. That chimney with a fire always burning. This shop, that place, this brothel.

The Crow Club is silent when her feet land on its roof, members of the gang outside or minding their own business downstairs. The lock to the window gives in easily beneath her fingers, Inej stopping in her tracks when it opens with a creaking sound. Kaz would never let his window that way, so vulnerable, locking it carefully even when he is inside. She would joke about his aversion to the fresh air, and he would offer a sarcastic reply about how fresh Ketterdam actually was.

He is expecting her.

Her heart beats a little faster at the thought even as she slips inside, her feet landing on the hardwood floor without a sound. She closes the window behind her, because the streets didn’t raise no fool, then unclasps the cloak from around her neck. She drops it on Kaz’s bed with little ceremony, walking around the small room like she owns it, owns the place, owns the world. It hasn’t changed much since her last time here – she could be surprised that this is still Kaz’s room, so high up, but she knows better than to expect him to sleep in Haskell’s old room.

He is as fond of attics as she is.

She opens a drawer, then another one, before a gasp get stuck at the back of her throat. She raises her hand so dramatically it would make Nina proud, blinking slowly at the sight in front of her.

The knife’s blade shines dully in the late afternoon light, silver and smooth, long as her forearm. She takes it between delicate fingers, inspecting the engravings on its handle before she balances it on one finger and tries the weight of it in its hand. Perfect, of course, like an extension of her own limb.

The laugh escapes her.

 

…

 

“You talked to my father.”

To his honour, Kaz barely reacts to her greeting when he enters the room. He barely glances her way, too, instead shrugging off his coat and carefully folding it on the chair by his desk. Then, with slow, precise motions, he takes off one glove, and the other. Inej stares at his pale hands, wondering if she will ever get used to seeing them so bare. She remembers his hand’s warmth against hers, solid in the way it slightly trembled. She remembers never wanting to let go of him, wanting more than that simple touch, wanting of him more than he could ever offer.

He doesn’t look at her, but there is the shadow of a smile on his lips and she thinks, _yes, I missed you too_. She smiles, too, even as she doesn’t stop playing with the knife, its point against the tip of her finger as she twists it this or that way. She was always a fan of the dramatics, when it comes to annoying Kaz. Nina would be so proud, and happily sighing.

“I haven’t seen your parents since you left.”

Wylan found them the perfect little cottage in the countryside, where they get everything they always want and need – both the merchling and the king of the Barrel made sure of it, even if only one of them would admit to it. She doesn’t expect Kaz to admit he is keeping a sharp eye on the Ghafas, nor would he tell her he has been visiting them every month or so. But she has been receiving her mother’s letters. She just lets Kaz keep up his appearances and pretences.

“What a shame. They think so highly of you,” she tells him with a pout, tapping her chin with the tip of the knife. Her way of thanking him for the gift.

“Careful, you might hurt yourself.” His way of saying she’s welcome.

Inej grins at him then, and is proud of the way his blink is a little slower than usual, as if caught by surprise. His armour is heavy, clinging to his shoulders like a second skin, but Inej is patient. It is patience that taught her to walk the tightrope, to become a shadow, to turn herself into the Barrel’s spider. It is patience that helps her stripping Kaz down, one layer at a time, until the thug is gone and only remains the man who didn’t promise her the world as much as offered it to her on a rusty platter.

“How was the Shu coast?” he asks as he takes a seat on his bed, facing her.

She shrugs, waving the knife like one would do their hand. “Bloody.”

He grins then – the feral grin of Dirtyhands, showing his fangs. “That’s my Wraith.”


End file.
